


adrift

by itsmylifekay



Series: i'd be your anchor but i'm scared you'd drown [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Promise, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, it has a hopeful ending, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:46:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to reconnect with Hydra after DC, the Winter Solider returns to the only other person he knows. Unfortunately, neither Bucky nor the Soldier get the reunion they expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	adrift

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](http://itsmylifekay.tumblr.com/post/92478167924/recovering-ws-steve-latching-onto-bucky-as-a-handler-at) post on tumblr
> 
> series title from The 1975's Talk!
> 
> hope you like it!

\---+---+---+---

The apartment in front of him was unassuming enough, low-key and forgettable, perfect for someone trying to stay below the radar. He did a mental tally of all possible entrances and exits, catalogued the surrounding area, then double-checked that his position was still secure. Training his eyes back on the apartment, he settled down to wait.

The other safe houses had all been destroyed, leaving this the only place he had left to go. But he knew nothing about the Handler. He didn’t know what he was allowed to touch in the apartment, the entrances he was supposed to use.

He was already going to be punished for failing the mission and for taking so long to return, it was best not to make any other mistakes.

It upset them when they had to hurt him.

It was hours later before a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, opening to reveal the Handler he had been waiting for as well as the woman known as the Black Widow. He kept perfectly still, seeing without overtly watching as the two exchanged a short conversation before parting ways. The Handler looked tired, but not angry.

It was best to move quickly before that changed.

As soon as the other car was out of sight, he went for the back window, slipping in without a trace- because detection meant another punishment. He could never be seen. It was a Rule.

Cream walls and clutter where the first things he registered. (No blood loss allowed in a kill, no disruption to the pattern of _things_ on the floor.) He triple-checked the visible entrances and exits then stood at attention, listening as the Handler moved about the apartment and waiting for his approach.

Finally, the footsteps came towards the room, some type of casual living area with a TV (good for masking noise) and a few random pieces of furniture (possible weapons, shields, vaults, and hiding spaces for a body). He blinked, registering everything in an instant and pushing it away just as quickly.

The Handler came around the corner then froze in his tracks, face going sallow. Then, when he didn’t move, a flicker of something else crossed the Handler’s face.

“Steve?” He asked, voice rough and scratchy. Maybe lack of sleep. Maybe a trick. He would not make the mistake of underestimating a Handler again. That was another Rule he had learned.

“Steve?” The Handler asked again, louder.

He furrowed his brow. It was that name again. He did not know that name, didn’t know why this Handler insisted on calling him it. It could be another trick. He had no name. Another Rule. Or it could be a test, complete obedience no matter what the Handler says. He knew that Rule as well.

Playing something safely in the middle, he inclined his head in a slight nod, acknowledging the question but not responding directly to the name. The Handler seemed pleased and took a step forward, placed a hand on the side of his face. The touch was gentle but he knew how quickly gentleness could turn to pain.

“Steve…what happened?”

The Handler seemed sad when he asked the question. Disappointed, probably, that he had failed. But it was a _question_ , oddly worded but distinguishable. He had to answer despite the punishment that he knew would follow the words.

“The primary mission was a failure. Initial check of extraction points was unsuccessful and no contact could be established. Followed directive to return to primary Handler. Contact successful. Time since last check: two-hundred and fifty nine days, six hours, seven minutes.”

The Handler stared at him for a long time, face gone pale again. “What was that?” He asked quietly.

He saw no need for the question but it was not his place to wonder. It could be another test, to check his conditioning. “Mission report.”

The Handler’s face fell. “Do you…Do you know who I am?”

His eyebrows drew together. This was a test and he felt like he was failing, even though he knew no other answers for the questions he’d been given. “You’re the Handler.”

“No,” The Handler shook his head. “I mean my name.”

Name…Name…He knew no name. He knew only the face, a flicker of recognition and nothing more. Memories interfered with the Mission.

“It’s Bucky.” The Handler whispered, looking struck.

A sharp pain throbbed in his head and he wondered if this was the beginning of his punishment. He had failed. He had failed the mission, he had failed the test, and now he would be punished for his disobedience.

They would be upset with him after.

But the Handler asked again. “Do you remember me?”

Another jolt of pain shot through his head and words spilled from his lips unbidden. “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th, 32557241.”

The Handler’s eyes grew wide and watery, a small smile curving his lips. “Yeah, yeah, Stevie. That’s me.”

Stevie. A nickname of the name given to him earlier. A pet name, maybe. It still didn’t explain why this Handler had chosen to use it. But it was not his place to question. He would be good. He would be loyal. Maybe then they would let him sleep after his punishment.

But hope was not something he was supposed to consider.

\---+---+---+---

Bucky had no idea what was happening, or what he was supposed to be doing.

He’d been out all day with Natasha, being drug around to the gym and stores and to a little Italian place for lunch. It had been a good day, sure, but it had done little to make him forget why he was back in DC. That he had failed to find Steve. He was more than ready to be home and had wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch with a movie and a tub of ice cream. But of course, that plan had been shot to hell when he rounded the corner and saw someone standing in his living room.

And not just anyone, but fucking Steve Rogers just standing there staring at him like he was waiting for something. At first he had felt his blood run cold, remembering the last time he and Steve had been face to face, when he had been Steve’s mission and they had both nearly gone to a watery grave. But when Steve made no move to engage, he had let hope grow.

It hadn’t taken more than a few questions for that hope to be completely shattered.

Because the person in front of him wasn’t Steve, it was the Winter Soldier. And he was so out of his depth it scared him.

So, naturally, after getting Steve set up in the bedroom and telling him to stay put, he had called Natasha in a panic.

“Forget something?” Her familiar voice came over the line and Bucky felt himself start to relax.

“No, I think- I think I just found something, actually.”

Her tone sharpened as she caught onto his distress. “James, what happened?”

Bucky took a deep breath before allowing himself to say the words, “Steve’s here.”

Natasha was silent for a long moment. “I’m on my way back to your house, keep him in your sights and try not to get yourself killed in the mean time.”

There was a squeal of tires and then the line cut off.

Bucky walked slowly back to his room and opened the door in a daze, panic coming back full force when he saw the Winter Soldier standing at attention against the wall. A defendable position, he noted, but his posture was the farthest from hostile. Since he’d first walked in the door he’d seemed apprehensive, almost afraid.

Bucky didn’t want to consider the reason why.

Natasha arrived just a few minutes later and sent Bucky a text, giving him time to tell the Soldier to stand down before going to meet her.

“So what’s the situation?” Natasha asked, outward appearance calm but one hand resting on the gun at her hip.

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t know. He was just here when I got back.”

“Has he said anything?”

“I asked him a few questions, yeah.” Bucky answered. “But he doesn’t talk other than that.”

Natasha’s face softened minutely. “You have to give him time, James. I’m impressed he even came here at all.”

“Yeah, well, about that…” Bucky scratched guiltily at the back of his neck.

Natasha narrowed her eyes.

“He…didn’t come because he remembered me. At least, not the way I wish he had. He came because he thinks I’m his handler or something.”

Natasha’s yes narrowed further. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

“He gave me what he called a mission report, told me he’d come here after not having success at any of the extraction points. Then,” Bucky blew out a breath before staring again. “Then, I asked him if he knew who I was… he said I was the handler.” He saw the look on Natasha’s face and added, “But, when I told him my name was Bucky, he got this real weird look on his face, like he was in pain, then rattled off my name, rank, and serial number from back in the war. So he might remember something, I don’t know.”

“I don’t think anyone is going to know. We don’t even know the full extent of the damage to his mind.” Natasha shook her head and her mouth twitched down at the corners. “It’s hard to say what’s going to happen.”

Which wasn’t really helping Bucky at all, considering who he had in his bedroom. “So what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

Natasha lifted an eyebrow at his outburst, obviously not impressed but not giving him shit about it either. “Honestly? I think you should do what you think is right. For both of you.” She fixed him with a hard look. “Don’t destroy yourself over this either, James.”

Bucky let out a sigh and sank down onto the couch. It’s not like he had any options to work with, really. He ran his hands over his face. “I’ll watch him here. Underneath it all, he’s still Steve and I have to take care of him.”

“Alright,” Natasha laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll try to keep people off your back. And call me if you need help. Understood?”

Bucky nodded, remaining on the couch as Natasha walked out the door.

With the apartment silent again, the wall separating he and the Soldier became unsettlingly thin. But it was something he was going to have to get used to, since Steve was his responsibility again.

He just prayed that this time he wouldn’t fuck it up.

\---+---+---+---

It had been three days and still he had not been punished. The waiting was probably part of the process, the anticipation meant to weaken his strength and mental fortifications. But he had been trained against those kinds of torture, it made no sense why the Handler would try to use them now.

But many things about this Handler made no sense.

Like how he continued to insist on calling him Steve instead of ‘the asset’ like the other Handlers had. He also spoke to the asset too much and gave him more food than was necessary for survival (and it was realfood, not the IV he had become accustomed to). He wasted the asset on ‘missions’ like watching television or listening to music.  The asset had once been assigned to sit out on the small balcony, but had not been given the task again since he confirmed his duties of reconnaissance and protection while in the position.

The Handler also refused to fix the asset. But maybe that was punishment as well.

He couldn’t sleep.

Every night he was wracked by pain, left in agony in the quiet of the room he had been given, haunted by visions of an older apartment, muted light and a sketchbook. The Handler was there too, but seemed younger, less tired.

It _had_ to be his punishment, seeing those moments, seeing his Handler’s suffering. He would never cause the Handler pain ever again if that was the kind of punishment it warranted. He just didn’t know how to make it right again.

\---+---+---+---

Bucky was trying so, so hard to make things right. He was doing his best, trying to take care of the Soldier and bring Steve back. The man was obviously malnourished- scraggly and sharp- and starved in other ways as well. He tried to feed him, to keep him company or give him things to do- but only normal things, nothing that could be connected with his time as the Winter Soldier.

He was trying anything he could think of to bring Steve back again.

But every day he was reminded of how out of his league he was. Because the years he’d spent taking care of Steve when he was sick and asthmatic, or pulling a trigger for him in the war, was nothing compared to what Bucky had to do now.

He had never really gotten the chance to mourn Steve the first time around, and now he was living with his ghost. Because there was no doubt in his mind that this _weapon_ living with him wasn’t his Steve. And he was beginning to doubt he ever would be again.

Nothing Bucky did seemed to help at all. The Soldier continued to stare blankly ahead, eyes sometimes tracking him around the room, sometimes not looking at him at all, lost in thoughts that Bucky could never hope to understand.

Steve had never felt further away than he did now, with the hollow shell of his body sitting in Bucky’s living room.

\---+---+---+---

Something wasn’t right. The Handler wasn’t responding appropriately and the asset could feel itself slipping. Something like that should never be allowed.

He had never heard of this Handler before, had just come out of instinct. It was obvious he had no experience. Perhaps something had gone wrong.

He contemplated every night whether or not he should leave, re-check the extraction points and return to a Handler who knew how to fix him. How to make the pain in his head stop. He was not effective like this.

But he couldn’t help but wonder if this was another test of his loyalty, if leaving would be seen as insubordination instead of the attempt to follow orders that it was.

But the Handler didn’t appear to have any hidden plans, nor any intention to discipline at all. He would have to treat the situation with caution, moving forward like he had when he was still on his return mission.

He needed to gather intelligence.

\---+---+---+---

Bucky felt like things were finally starting to go right. The hard mask of the Soldier was beginning to slip and every once in a while hints of Steve would peak through: changing the TV channel, getting up on his own and wandering to the window to stare quietly out the glass, making a sandwich for himself out of the ingredients in the fridge. They were all simple things, but they were progress nonetheless. And Bucky would take what he could get.

But Steve still wouldn’t talk out of turn. And he refused to respond to any of Bucky’s subtle questions about his memories.

There seemed to be consequences to Steve’s resurrection as well, signs Bucky could see in the increasingly dark circles under Steve’s eyes and the restless way he carried himself. Despite the pain it was causing him to watch, he tried to be encouraging, smile at each of Steve’s accomplishments.

Because this was his burden to carry. It had been his job to protect Steve ever since they’d first met as two kids with dirty faces and skinned knees. And he had failed. He had left Steve alone in Brooklyn to go off to war, had let him become a weapon for the States. And then he had let him fall, had only been able to watch and yell in horror as Steve dove off that fucking train after him. Only one of them had gotten back on board and he hated himself every day that it had been him.

So he needed to do this. No matter how much it hurt.

\---+---+---+---

The Handler reacted to increasing levels of rebellion in an unpredicted way. He had seemed _proud_. Happy, even.

And while a part of him felt secure in the idea that he had finally pleased the Handler, another part knew that it wasn’t right. The Handler should not encourage disloyalty.

The answer was obvious. He had to go back.

\---+---+---+---

“James?” Natasha asked, voice unsettlingly calm.

Bucky looked up from what he was doing and lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Natasha glanced over to where Steve was sitting in the corner then looked back at Bucky. “Kitchen, now.”

Confused but not willing to go against Natasha when she got scarily serious, Bucky made his way into the kitchen. It was a bit messy from the cooking Steve had done earlier but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t clean later. He had a feeling Natasha wasn’t going to lecture him about the cleanliness of his counter tops, though.

“What’s going on with Steve?”

Definitely not about the countertops then.

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked, confused. He glanced back out to the living room to check Steve was still where they’d left him. “He’s doing fine.”

“No,” Natasha’s sharp tone had him turning back to face her as she whispered, “You _want_ him to be fine and are projecting that hope onto his actions.”

Bucky crossed his arms defensively. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Steve _has_ changed, you’re not wrong about that. But the way he’s changed…” Natasha’s face grew darker. “He’s not looking at you like a superior anymore. He’s looking at you like a target.” She let the words sink in before continuing. “Something needs to be done before someone gets killed.”

Bucky’s face fell along with his heart. “What?”

“You used to take care of Steve back when you were children, right? Well Steve came back here because some part of him still remembered that. He respected you because of that. But he’s figured out you’re not really his handler. He’s going to get more unpredictable and we won’t be able to control him. He’s still the Solider, Bucky.” She took a step forward and put a hand on his shoulder, eerily reminiscent of when this first began. “I’m sorry, James.”

Bucky shook his head. As much as he hated to admit it, he could see what she was talking about. And it would be stupid and dangerous to ignore it to protect his own fragile home when someone’s life could pay for his irresponsibility. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

“Then I guess we need to do something before he makes his move.”

\---+---+---+---

The asset had been moved. He didn’t know where. And he didn’t understand how he had gotten there either.

People had entered the apartment and then the Handler had told him not to let go. He hadn’t known what that meant, at first, but then he had been pulled into a restrained position and lights were flashing all around and the world was spinning. And then, just as suddenly, he was somewhere else entirely.

He did a quick sweep of the new space and didn’t like what he saw: there were no structures for defense, no obvious way of escape back the way they had come, and only one apparent exit out of whatever structure they were in.

He scanned his eyes over everything they passed as they moved, the Handler staying very close the entire time. Watching. But not in the way he’d watched before, there was something different in his eyes.

He didn’t understand why.

Maybe he had been discovered. Cold fear coiled at the base of his spine but he forced himself to continue forward.

They stepped into a large room with pillars that towered overhead and a gleaming throne. And then, everyone else was stepping out of the way and a ray of light was coming towards him, too fast to dodge. He took it full in the chest and pain bloomed throughout his entire body, everything burning. It felt like he was being crushed. He vaguely registered a tearing sensation in his shoulder and heard the clunk as his metal arm hit the ground. The sensors were no longer transmitting any data.

He would be punished for that.

But when the pain was finally over and he opened his eyes, he realized the punishment he had been waiting for had already been delivered.

He was small. He was weak. And he could already feel another round of pain shooting up his spine.

This is how he would die, then.

They were killing him for his failure.

\---+---+---+---

Bucky felt dead inside, ripped apart by guilt as he watched Steve scream and fall to the ground. It was obvious he didn’t understand, eyes wide with terror as he twitched and convulsed, body changing until he was lying still and frail on the stone floor.

It didn’t really hit him until after Steve had been washed and changed just what had been done, when he was in a small room with Steve laid out in a bed in front of him. He was tinier than Bucky remembered. And looked infinitely more fragile as well, with the left sleeve of his sleep shirt just empty fabric against the sheets.

The theory had been that reverting Steve’s body back to what it had been before the serum would somehow shock him back into more memories.

But it had already been a day and Steve showed no signs of surfacing. Instead they were left with the Soldier who spent every moment staring up at the ceiling in fear, flinching whenever anyone came too close. He was suffering, and it was Bucky’s fault.

And it only got worse when Steve became feverish, pale skin flushed and shining with sweat. His lips formed soundless, garbled words and he went through fits of panic and fear followed by stretches of complete stillness where his eyes would stare lifelessly into nothing.

Anytime Bucky tried to push back his bangs or whisper that it was going to be okay, Steve would shut down. If Steve wasn’t already in a trance, a single acknowledgment from Bucky was enough to send him into one.

Unable to take the look on Steve’s face any longer, Bucky slipped out into the hall and nearly ran into Sam.

“How you holding up, man?”

Bucky forced a smile that felt brittle on his face. “Not the first time I’ve sat at Steve’s bedside.”

“First time it’s been like this though.” Sam said, calling Bucky’s bluff. “Come on man, talk to me. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Why hasn’t he remembered anything?” He finally asked quietly. He felt pathetic and vulnerable but couldn’t quite find it in himself to care.

Sam took a moment to think about it. “Maybe whatever part of Steve that told him to come back to you, is telling him that the memories he’s getting back would hurt you. The Steve you knew, would he want you to see him like this?”

Bucky didn’t have time to shake his head before a scream came from Steve’s room. His feet started moving before he even thought about it and he was at Steve’s side before he could even blink. Steve was thrashing on the bed, tugging frantically at the padded restraints keeping him strapped down, eyes wild and glassy.

“Steve?” Bucky whispered.

Steve shouted louder and tried to arch off the bed. The harness around Steve’s chest creaked at the pressure.

“You’re gonna be okay, Stevie. You’re gonna be okay.” Tears pricked at Bucky’s eyes but he pushed them away. At least Steve hadn’t gone catatonic again. That had to be something. He covered Steve’s tense hand with his own and bowed his head over his heaving chest. “You’re gonna be okay, pal. Please. Please be okay.”

\---+---+---+---

_“You’re gonna be okay, pal.” Bucky murmured, readjusting the towel on Steve’s forehead and smoothing the blankets down around him._

_Steve was so hot though. He felt like he was melting. His lips were dry and cracked and his throat wouldn’t work right when he tried to say Bucky’s name._

He blinked his eyes furiously to clear the illusion, flickering between one dim room and another before a different scene caught on the edge of his conscience like a rusty wire. He tried to scream as he was drug back under but his throat was already raw.

_So much pain, everywhere. They were trying to break him and fear was creeping in as he realized they were succeeding. He couldn’t hold on. He could smell burnt flesh and taste copper in his mouth as electricity coursed through his entire body from his skull. They were burning him from the inside out._

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want the memories. Why had they done this?

The asset said they were being punished. Another part of him, one that was growing stronger every moment, said it was for something else.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

_“Come on, Stevie. You’ve got to drink something.”_

_Steve pursed his lips together, unable to shake his head let alone make a sound. It hurt too bad to do anything. Just the thought of something running down his throat made him want to scream. Rusty nails dragging across irritated skin._

_“Steve, please. You have to. For me. Please.”_

He opened his mouth to take what was given to him but a shout came out instead, lines blurring together until he couldn’t tell where one memory ended and another began.

_“Bucky!” He shouted. “Bucky!” He wanted to cry everything was so broken. Bucky had always been there to pull him out of tough situations, plucked him up by the collar in back alleys and grimy parking lots, but he’d been living in this hell for what felt like an eternity._

_“No one is coming for you. You are nothing. You are a weapon for our use. Give up your futile hope before it destroys you.”_

_Steve forced his eyes shut and screamed as red-hot pain shot through his veins._

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He had to hold on. He had to push away the thoughts like they had taught him. He had to ignore the memories. It was a Rule.

This _Steve_ was pain and agony and fear and hoping for a savior that never came. It was everything he had been saved from when he became the asset. The asset was quiet. The asset was obedient and loyal. The Handler kept the asset safe.

It was better that way.

And better for the Handler, too. When the asset cried, the Handler cried too.

_“Steve, Steve please you can’t do this. You can’t leave me. You’ve gotta pull through this, pal. Don’t you dare leave me.”_

He couldn’t hurt anymore. He had to control the pain.

_“Don’t make us punish you. You know how it upsets us.”_

_He nodded meekly and sat back in the chair, let the restraints lock around him._

He pushed against the straps and screamed.

When he was small like this, the Handler was afraid.

When he was small like this, everything was pain.

But this small part of him was getting stronger, and he didn’t know how to hold it back.

\---+---+---+---

Bucky could taste bile in the back of his throat as he watched Steve thrash in front of him. It was like Steve was getting all of his memories poured back in at once and couldn’t take it, cracks appearing at the edges as his mind overflowed with pain. It was torture just to watch. Bucky couldn’t imagine what Steve was going through reliving it.

Every once in a while he caught what he thought was a whisper or a shout of his name, lost in a garble of other sounds as Steve wrecked his voice. But no matter how loud and yelled in return, Steve never heard him.

It was after one particularly violent episode that he finally allowed himself to reach forward and run a hand along Steve’s limp face.

“Come on, Stevie. You can do it. I know you can.”

Steve’s skin was burning to the touch and Bucky was struck with how familiar the sensation was, of feeling the heat and Steve’s eyes fluttering open beneath his palm.

He cupped the back of Steve’s head and swallowed down his hope as Steve’s eyes began to focus. “Steve?” He asked softly.

Steve blinked again. “Buck?”

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice broke and he had to clear his throat to start again. “Yeah, Stevie. It’s me. How you feeling?”

Steve glanced around the room. “I’m sick?” His words were slurred together like they got when he was feverish.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Steve focused a bit more at that, brow furrowing in confusion. He looked up to Bucky for explanation.

“You’ve been sick for awhile, Steve. Someone…You were hurt real bad. Couldn’t remember who you were.”

Something flashed across Steve’s face and he tensed beneath Bucky’s hand before going deathly pale. “I hurt people.”

“Shhh, Steve. No. It wasn’t you.” Bucky tried to placate him but Steve wasn’t having it.

“I hurt so many people, Buck. I-” He looked up at Bucky with so much pain in his expression Bucky had to force himself not to look away. Steve’s voice was even worse. “Why did you bring me back?”

Bucky sucked in a breath. “Because you’re still _you,_ Steve. I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“So you made me this instead?” Steve closed his eyes and laid his head back down on the covers. “If I wasn’t worth your time before, Buck, I sure as hell aren’t now. I could kill you. I could hurt so many people. And even if I don’t, you’ll still be stuck taking care of me.”

“It doesn't matter.” Bucky waited until he could see the clear blue of Steve’s eyes before continuing, “I’ve never minded lookin’ after you. I’m just glad to have you back, Stevie.” He started tearing up despite his better efforts and leant down to bury his face in Steve’s hair.

“It wouldn’t be the same.” Steve whispered, voice sounding more hollow than before. Bucky pulled back to see his face. “It won’t be just me.” Steve explained. “He’ll be there, too. The asset. You think _I’m_ work…” Steve trailed off. “You don’t need to do this, Buck.

“But I _want_ to.” Bucky said. “Please, Steve. Please stay.”

\---+---+---+---

_“This man you call for, this Bucky Barnes, he is dead now.” Their voices offered no sympathy as pictures flashed in front of his face. A fallen plane. Ice. A friend lost in the void._

_He felt himself fall for the second time. Weightless, helpless, into darkness. He had nothing anymore._

_Nothing but pain and cold and the next mission etched into his skin._

Steve choked out a gasp, letting clean air fill his lungs.

Bucky was alive. He was there.

Closing his eyes, Steve let himself fall again, knowing Bucky would be there to catch him.

\---+---+---+---

When Steve suddenly went still and silent after his last plea for him to stay, Bucky had been terrified he’d lost him again. But then he realized the silence was different, calmer. Steve was relaxed and no longer pulling at the restraints, his eyes closed and still beneath pale eyelids instead of staring unseeingly into the room. His breaths were steady and even.

A day passed, and Steve continued to sleep. But he grew as well, the magic Odin had used to change him fading away as his mind began to mend itself back together from where it had been torn in two. Bucky could feel weight lifting from his shoulders with each inch added to Steve’s frame.

And by the end of the second day, Bucky held Steve’s hand as he finally opened his eyes, back in his larger body and a new life.

\---+---+---+---

A month passed and Steve still felt _wrong_.

He felt wrong in his own skin, itchy and uncomfortable. He felt wrong around others, painfully out of place and awkward. He felt wrong with Bucky, no longer fitting the way they used to when Steve was the one needing help.

He had been broken apart and put together so many times that all of his jagged edges no longer fit correctly. There were pieces missing. Parts broken. He was a box of ruined puzzle pieces shaken around into something unrecognizable and divided, a vast schism running down his middle that nothing would ever fill or fix.

Bucky always assured him he was perfect, that he loved him no matter what. But Steve couldn’t accept that love until he learned how to accept himself. And it was hurting both of them, digging at old wounds until they were fresh and bleeding again.

Which was why Steve spent hours upon hours thinking of any solution he could. He didn’t sleep much so instead he would lie there and stare up at the ceiling, thoughts running through his head. He didn’t do much during the day either, so he thought then too.

And after all that thinking he had finally, _finally_ come to a conclusion.

On the inside he felt like glass, fragile and breakable, shards dangerous when shattered. But on the outside he was still the same indestructible weapon he had been created to be, despite his refusal to reattach the mechanical arm.

So he had gone to Thor and was standing in the doorway, hunched over his empty shoulder as the other man approached.

“Steven,” The man smiled kindly. “I am told you have a favor to ask of me.”

Steve nodded.

“Then ask away, my friend, for I will do all that is in my power to aid you.”

“The magic from before…” Steve murmured. “Can it be replicated?”

Thor’s face turned to confusion. “You speak of the time we made you smaller?”

Steve nodded again.

“The device is still operational, yes. But you need not worry. It is only used in the most dire of times. You need not fear its effects.” Thor beamed down at him, gold and bright and _good_ in a way that made Steve’s heart ache.

“Could you use it again?”

Thor was speechless for a moment, then his face softened and he laid a hand on Steve’s good shoulder. “You would return to the way you were before?”

“Please.” Steve bowed his head, voice soft and pleading.

Thor put his other hand on the side of Steve’s neck. “You have no place bowing before me, Steven. You have endured more than any other warrior known. You will have your favor. And any others you think to ask of me in the days to come.”

Steve felt himself fill with relief at the words. Then brought himself back into attention when Thor lowered his head to catch his eyes.

“But if you would grant me one thing in return, it is to know why.” Thor’s voice was just above a whisper, gentle and full of muted pain. “Why have chosen this path?”

\---+---+---+---

“You ready to sleep, Stevie?” Bucky murmured, rubbing at the pale skin beneath his hand, tracing over bumps of spine and sweeping shoulder blades. The clock read a little after eleven and that was usually when Steve started to get tired. Bucky put his book down and exchanged pages for soft blond hair, running his fingers through the strands.

Steve grumbled softly against his chest.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He whispered fondly, trying not to disturb the man dozing on top of him as he maneuvered them both beneath the covers. Steve’s arm was curled around his stomach and Bucky reached down to trace the thin bones of his wrist, sweeping up his thumb to catch the delicate structure of his hand, his fingers, a map Bucky eagerly memorized before gentling Steve’s hand back into place.

He wrapped both his arms around Steve’s small frame and pulled him close, making sure one palm was splayed out over the folded skin of Steve’s left shoulder as he settled into the pillows, providing the warmth that kept Steve feeling protected and safe. Because Steve had chosen to be vulnerable again. He had chosen to give up the serum, had refused all Tony’s offers of another arm, had gone back to being small because in his mind it made it easier to keep all of his broken pieces together.

No matter the reason, he had given Bucky another chance. He had fallen one last time and Bucky had caught him, clutched him close and swore to never let go again.

If Steve wanted to be ‘ _just_ ’ Steve again, then Bucky would support that any way he could.

\---+---+---+---

 

_“I was made into a weapon for the United States; I was made into a weapon for Hydra..._

_I just want to be me again.”_

 

\---+---+---+---

**Author's Note:**

> planning on writing more but comments would be greatly appreciated^^
> 
> on [tumblr](itsmylifekay.tumblr.com)


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